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The burning stench of rubber soles

that once stood on a burning bridge

abandoned by feet walking away

from smoke clouds on a distant horizon

thickening the line between possible endings

and impossible longing

clogs up the nose with memories of

hapless waiting; the thunder of silence

belts out against choking eardrums

obliterates the will, the wish, the want,

the dream, the desire, the dawn

as the gibbous moon shines down on

neon-lit trees gently ruffled

by an impotent Zephirus that fails

to impregnate a jaded August.

And somewhere in the lamplit darkness

fingertips turn rough edges of an old chapter

to touch with careful, gentle grace

the smooth, unlined blank face

of a fresh clean page, waiting,

for the kiss of the pen.